


streets of fire

by molgera



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Bucky Barnes, Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Skips, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/molgera/pseuds/molgera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky remembers, through a haze, this: a small, blond boy, much too small, and far too resolute for his own good. Bruised knuckles and split lips, over and over. The memories were already fading around the edges, a worn photograph. And then he was captured. <i>And then, and then, and then.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	streets of fire

Recovery, contrary to what Bucky had hoped upon getting out of cryo, was not a slow uphill battle. There were ways, now, of course. To fix the arm. To remove the words from his head. Ways to be safe, finally. But feeling it was harder. The memories were trickier. They came to him, sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once.

On the bridge, he remembered. When he pulled him from the river. He did it, and didn’t know why.

_“You pulled me from the river. Why?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Yes you do.”_

A statement and a plea. And that was the crux of it—he didn’t know, but he knew he should. Knew the moment he saw the exhibit in the Smithsonian, knew enough that he kept a picture of Steve in his notebook in his tiny apartment in Bucharest. Bucky didn’t know how to feel much after the war. After HYDRA.

But love is stubborn, and he and Steve found each other back then. Bucky remembers, through a haze, this: a small, blond boy, much too small, and far too resolute for his own good. Bruised knuckles and split lips, over and over. Too many pitiful double dates and _wanting_. Wanting so much that he couldn’t have, then. But maybe could now.

He remembers shipping out, the war. The feeling that the fighting would never stop and he would never get to see Steve or Brooklyn ever again. The fear that every damn day would be his last. The memories were already fading around the edges, a worn photograph. And then he was captured. _And then, and then, and then._  

-

_“I thought you were dead.”_

_“I thought you were smaller.”_

He remembers again, this one more painful. A dull ache in his chest. Steve finding him in Austria. He didn’t want Steve to see him like this. Steve, the small, blond boy from Brooklyn who finally got the recognition he deserved, and a body to match a steadfast heart.

-

When Bucky came out of cryo, he expected Steve to be there. He had spent so long looking for Bucky that it only seemed natural to think _of course_. It took a few seconds longer to realize that however much it pained Steve to see him go under, he realized then that this was Bucky’s choice. That he had so many years of choices taken from him. That maybe he needed some breathing room, and time to deal with the logistics of getting a new arm, and getting the trigger words out of his head. If Bucky wanted to see Steve, he knew all he’d have to do is ask.

-

T’Challa met with Bucky a few hours later to discuss options for his new prosthetic arm, catching him up to date on current events and what had transpired since he went under. Apparently it had been a little under a year, which wasn’t bad, all things considered. So many years of his life had been wasted. He tried to think of this one as part of a long process of eventual healing.

They spoke easily, a pleasant surprise given the events that led them both to this moment. Bucky was forever indebted to T’Challa’s kindness.

“I would have done the same for anyone else in your position. I told Captain Rogers that you, like my father, were a victim. You are a good man. You have had so much taken from you. If I can do anything in my power to help right some of those wrongs, it would make me happy.”

Their conversation had strayed away from discussions of the Avengers, of Steve. But now the question hung in the air like a dead weight. T’Challa waited for Bucky to speak.

“Where is he?”

T’Challa didn’t have to ask, didn’t hesitate.

“He is in New York, in Brooklyn. I can arrange transportation to the closest airport, if you wish for it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, pausing a moment to rub at his face a bit, finally, _finally_ feeling like he was waking up, “I would.”

-

Bucky arrives on Steve’s doorstep in Brooklyn a week later with a new arm and something like hope in his chest. He can’t be too certain of anything anymore, his emotions least of all. He swallows nervously and knocks three times.

“Hi,” he says, voice breaking exactly how he hoped it wouldn’t. Steve’s eyes go wide, mouth and brain finding a disconnect. His arms still seem to work, though, and he motions for Bucky to come in.

Bucky grabs his things and stumbles inside, and Steve shuts the door, an end and a beginning.

-

Bucky goes to therapy of his own accord, alone. Steve waits outside, and on days that are especially difficult, they go to the local diner after for a heaping plate of scrambled eggs and hash browns. It doesn’t fix things, but it helps.

-

“You don’t have to be brave all the time, Buck,” Steve says, eyes betraying the steady tone of his voice. He sees the set of Bucky’s jaw, hears the slow exhale from his nostrils. It was only natural that Bucky wanted to bear his burden alone, but Steve—good and honest, with too much love in his heart—always had to fight, even if it wasn’t with his fists.

“I don’t know how to be any other way, Steve,” Bucky says flatly. The life he was living was on the other side of so many years of pain. It didn’t seem possible for them to be here having this conversation at all. Bucky’s life seemed to be divided into three parts: before, then, _now_. It should have been so much easier.  

“I just want to help… if I can, to try,” Steve pauses, considering. “Whatever you need, even if it means going away,” he winces, not trying to hide it, “or…” he trails off.

Bucky toes at Steve’s foot with his own, laughing quietly, a low rumble in his chest. It felt strange, foreign. “C’mon, Steve. You didn’t spend all that time looking for me to tell me you’d be okay with me leaving. Even if I wanted to, you don’t have to be so selfless all the time.”

Steve ducks his head for a moment, finally looking back up. “I guess you’re right. I just want you to do what makes you happy.”

“Not really sure what that is,” Bucky says. It sounds like a question. Steve knew what that was like, too. To have a life ahead of you, and not know what to do with it. But maybe neither of them had to go at it alone. That they could find purpose and meaning together.

After everything, here they were. Not free, but not captive, either. Bucky sometimes wondered if it was worth it, to live like this. If it would ever be different. If he would ever wake up not wondering if today would be the day someone would find him, and try to take him away from Steve again.

“Not sure of much anymore, but I know that whatever I do, I’d like you with me. If that’s alright,” Bucky lowers his gaze, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, Buck, of course.” Steve halts. Bucky looks up at him, the ghost of a smile on his face, eyes crinkling around the corners. He nods his head in Steve’s direction, eyes asking before his mouth does: “D’you mind?”

Steve beckons him over, then rests both of his hands on his thighs. Not assuming, not taking. Offering, if Bucky wants it. Steve gives Bucky a choice. He doesn’t know what to do with it. The both of them, marred by war and time, plagued by indecision.

“Can I?” Another question hanging in the air. Bucky reaches out tentatively, hand hovering slightly over Steve’s where it rested on his thigh.

“‘Course you can.” Bucky tried to reconcile the image of Steve before with the Steve he was with now. And maybe what little he remembered from then. He took Steve’s big, warm hand into both of his own, tracing light patterns across his palm and down his fingertips. Flesh and metal meeting in a mixture of nervousness, worry, and love.

The touches grew more frequent, more confident, over the course of a few weeks. Steve would have given Bucky the world if he had asked, but for right now all he wanted was to relearn how to touch without fear. To love and be loved. Bucky still wanted. He thinks of _before_ again, and resolves to talk to Steve soon. To stay silent still meant pain. But to take a risk, to choose something that might result in happiness—that took bravery.

-

Bucky stared in the mirror one morning, stomach turning over and over. He looked at himself and thought hard. He had found out, through the power of the internet (one of the marvels of the twenty-first century) that there was a word for what he felt. Maybe not exactly, but something like it. It felt comfortable and safe.

Steve didn’t hear Bucky come in. He was at the counter perched on a barstool eating oatmeal, taking sips of his coffee every few minutes. Bucky steeled himself and walked into the room, making sure his footfalls were loud enough for Steve to register he was there.

“Hey,” Steve looked up from his breakfast, smiling. Bucky exhaled nervously. Steve could sense it immediately. “What’s up?” Not _what’s wrong_. Already a positive start.

“I think I’m…” Bucky starts, shakes his head. “I’m asexual,” he says, exhaling through his mouth hard and fast, looking up at Steve, worrying his lip between his teeth. Steve waits.

“But I still like people. I just don’t—can’t.” He squeezes his eyes tight and runs a hand through his hair. “What they did to me, I… I’m better now, with touching. With you. It feels safe. But I don’t want everything the way I remember it before. You told me you wanted to help with anything I needed and you have. I can’t ask you for things you can’t give me, though. But I wanted you to know, I guess. Because I like you. God, I meant for this to all come out so much more eloquently.” He stops to breathe.

“You’re doing fine, Buck.”

It’s all the encouragement he needs to keep going. “I remember, before the war. Wanting you. It was different then, but some of it’s the same, I think. It’s still real messy in here, Steve,” Bucky taps his head lightly before continuing, “I won’t pretend it’s not. But I wanted you to know… in case maybe you felt something for me too. I know I couldn’t be what you wanted, probably, but—”

Steve held up a hand, didn’t cut him off, but made it clear he wanted to say something. Bucky nodded, swallowing for the first time in a few minutes, finally registering that his throat had gone dry. The hardest part was over.

“I’ve loved you my whole life, Bucky. It’s why I came after you. Thick and thin, we’ve always been there for each other. For a long time I never really could figure out what that meant, exactly. But I do feel the same. I never wanted to impose, in case you didn’t.” Bucky shakes his head again, always baffled by how stupidly selfless Steve could be.

He keeps going. “Who you are right now—today—is more than enough. Exactly what I want.”

It’s nothing like a movie, though Steve’s spoon slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor is a little dramatic, and when Bucky moves across the kitchen it feels like it’s happening in slow motion.

“What we have now is okay. But if you wanted, I would be okay with kissing you. And more touching, when I feel ready. If that’s okay?”

Steve responds by moving his face towards Bucky’s slowly. Rubs his nose against Bucky’s, face flushing pink. “More than okay,” he exhales, waiting.

Bucky grumbles, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Said you could kiss me, you jerk. What’re you waiting for?”

Steve rolls his eyes, and leans in, and Bucky relearns happiness and safety, kindness and love.

Things aren’t always perfect, but he looks at Steve—Steve, who knows before, and then, and now, and still thinks he’s good and worthy and tells him so. Sometimes Bucky can believe it, too. Steve tells him between kisses, mornings spent curled around each other in bed, nights when one of them has to sleep on the couch, because the nightmares are too much.

-

They found each other. Again, and again, and again, against all odds. And Steve always chose _him_. He tells himself, but doesn’t always believe it, that it must count for something.

-

They decide to take a road trip.

“It’s so cliché,” Steve says one morning, “but I really want to.”

It would be nice to get away. Brooklyn will always be home, Bucky thinks, but he’s a little better now, and there’s so much more on the other side of the river, away from the Atlantic. Entire oceans he’s never seen. He closes his eyes and thinks of the Pacific, standing on the beach with Steve, the water dancing over his toes. In the pictures it had always looked so blue. He could find out for himself if he wanted.

“I think I’d like that.”

-

Bucky hits the pedal as they fly down the open road—miles and years ahead, Steve at his side, for better or for worse.

Steve rests his hand gently on Bucky’s thigh, the dark of night giving way to an orange and pink sunrise. He thinks they must be somewhere in Arizona by now.

“‘Til the end of the line, right, Buck?” A phrase he remembers from before, then, and here, finally, _now_.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his mouth forming a smile that feels unfamiliar, buried in snow and ice and years of hurt. “Yeah,” he says again, and this time he believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> i always end up projecting too much of myself onto characters in fics i write, but Oh Well. for me, my asexuality and ptsd go hand in hand, and honestly i did not start this with the intention of bucky being asexual, but it hit me that it could totally work and i ran with it.
> 
> title is from the bruce springsteen song of the same name because it reminds me of bucky. 
> 
> you can follow me on [tumblr](http://www.frankiesinatra.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/beefybarnes) if you want.


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